Wayne appeared over Garth’s shoulder and took a deep lung-full of his wild blonde hair. A smile crept across Wayne’s face and he wrapped a forearm around Garth’s shoulder. With his free hand, he stripped off his ever-present black baseball cap and shook his long black hair into his face. Garth arched his back, pressing his buttocks into Wayne’s rock-hard bulge. A similar smile creased Garth’s face, just barely revealing Garth’s slightly crooked teeth. Garth turned, draped his arms around Wayne’s shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips touched tentatively, their mouths slightly parted to better taste one another. With those first sweet tastes of each other, they became ravenous. They moaned and groped, their hands exploring each other’s bodies. Garth’s hand found the top button to Wayne’s acid-washed jeans and his fingers fumbled about as he tried to undo the catch. Suddenly, Wayne broke the kiss and turned his head towards the invisible window in which all readers and writers may view fictional worlds. Garth continued peppering kisses across Wayne’s cheek and down his neck.
“Really? Gay Sex. That’s what you’re, really, going with?” Wayne asked the author of this story. Garth opened up Wayne’s jeans and his hand disappeared inside.
“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, but we both have girlfriends as of the end of Wayne’s World 2.” Wayne continued. Garth’s hand, the one that wasn’t fondling Wayne’s underwear-clad member, was delving deep into his own jeans.
“Remember? Tia Carrere? Back in the 90’s, there wasn’t a single post-pubescent boy that wasn’t jacking it to Tia Carrere. Why not her?” Wayne asked as Garth’s hand reemerged from his jeans only to disappear again, this time sliding inside of Wayne’s briefs.
“This just seems uninspired. Anytime someone pairs two guys, someone else makes the joke about them being gay. It’s really kind of homophobic when you think about it. What exactly is so funny about me passionately making love to Garth?”
“Fuck me.” Garth whispered into Wayne’s ear. With that, Garth dropped to his knees and pulled Wayne’s rock-hard, eleven-inch cock out from his jeans and began drawing his tongue along its length. Soon, Garth’s face was dripping with his own slobber and Wayne’s pre-cum.
“I mean, Garth’s my best friend and I love him dearly. Oh! If a man loves another man that instantly means they’re both gay. Isn’t that childish? Just a little bit?” Wayne placed his hand on the crown of Garth’s head and began to rock his hips, thrusting his cock in and out of Garth’s mouth while Garth moaned in pleasure.
“This is just infantile. Garth landed Kim Basinger. Kim Basinger! The same guys that were jacking it to Tia Carrere were getting chapped and tender over Kim Basinger. But because Garth and I are friends, we must be fucking one another.- Bend over Garth.” Wayne said. Garth rose from his knees and leaned over the armrest of the couch where the two of them taped ‘Wayne’s World.’
“Yeah. With your narrow view, you’re probably expecting me to pound his ass raw. No! I’ll dance for you, puppet master, but I’m screwing on my own terms. Slow and romantic, or will that blow your preconceived notions out of the water?” With that, Wayne began to gently massage Garth’s tiny, brown asshole.
“Fuck me, Wayne! Fuck me hard!” Garth cried.
“Dude. You’re not helping my case.” Wayne said. When Garth’s anus was relaxed and yawning, Wayne slowly slid his dong inside.
“Mmmm! Yeah. Yes. Do it to me, Wayne.” Garth said.
“What I don’t get is, why would you pass up funnier jokes for this. We once said ‘Schwing!’ to Madonna. She’s all bony and weird-looking now. Why not her forcing herself on us. Well okay. When I think about it, that’s just trading homophobia for sexism. A sexually-forward, older woman. God forbid.” Wayne said, adopting a sarcastic tone. He gripped Garth by the hips and drove his prick up into Garth’s large intestine. Garth screamed with pleasure and then gripped his cock, jacking it hard.
“You know what, no. I don’t think it is sexism. Madonna is objectively gross. Her arms alone. Garth and I double-teaming Madonna would be ten-times more funny than me fucking Garth.” Wayne said, drawing his pork-sword back out from Garth’s brown hole.
“I want to have your cum-baby!” Garth screamed. Wayne hung his head in disgust, but continued to thrust into Garth’s ass.
“This is just getting embarrassing. Let me just end this.” Wayne said, picking up the pace. Slap. Slap. Slap. Wayne’s crouch slammed into Garth’s ass cheeks. Garth screamed and writhed as Garth yanked on his manhood. Wayne finally erupted, blowing scalding hot semen up into Garth’s bat-cave.
“YES! YES! YES! YES!” Garth screamed as tears of joy rolled down his cheeks. Wayne pulled free of Garth and spunk leaked and oozed from Garth’s throbbing log-flume.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself, you dirty bitch. I’m going to go watch The Avengers.” Wayne said, stealing up the basement stairs with his cock dangling between his legs.
The End
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Too Much Of A Good Thing
"You were great, Eli Braden (@elibraden)" Eric Gosselin said, hurrying Eli toward the front door.
"We're not on air. Why are you saying my full name with twitter handle?" Eli asked.
"Whatever, man. Have a good one." Eric said, firmly putting his boot in Eli's ass and kicking him out the door. Eli flew, sprawling, out onto the front walk, skinning his hands and face. Eric slammed the door shut and then hurried past Jon.
"Hey, man. What's up?" Jon asked as Eric disappeared into Jon's bedroom.
"You okay, man?" Jon called, knocking on his own bedroom. The lock on the door snapped shut and Eric was off in his own world.
Eric ripped open his laptop and logged on to http://www.chokethatjap-jew.com/, Eric's favorite strangulation porn site. Eric ripped his pants off, not bothering with his belt and actually breaking it as his pants fell. Before long, he was off to the races, stroking like a manic. Sweat rolled down his temples and his face turned beet-red. Blood spurted from his nostrils. Little, red veins bulged and burst in his eyes and finally, he exploded with cum. Cum splashed against Jon's walls and bedspread. Semen washed over Eric's inner thighs and calves. Jism splatted onto his chest and beneath his chin.
The only way I can avoid seeing everyone I love die is to die first. Eric thought and a single tear rolled down his eyes. Such morbid thoughts were common after he popped. His hands were slick with spunk and sweat and he wiped them on Jon's comforter. With that important business done, Eric logged onto Twitter. After retweeting a few times, Eric noticed that he had a private message. He checked out the handle, @McMickey89. The name was vaguely familiar so he went on to read the message.
McMickey89:
is this ok
The lack of punctuation was familiar as well. The cosmo girl. Jon and Eric did a segment where they gave advice to stupid, teenage girls. McMickey89 was one of those girls. He had recommended that she send him pics of her breasts. Beneath the three-word message, there was a link to a jpeg. Eric clicked on the link and saw teenage breasts. He saw a bare, lightly tanned torso with a scatter of freckles across the right breast. Her breasts were the size of plums with tiny, pink nipples. Eric gasped and began to type a reply.
Theericgosselin:
Christ! I could be registered as a sex offender just for looking at this. You can't send grown men pictures of your boobs.
He was about to hit reply, but then thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
Take another one from a different angle. Your tits look lopsided in this one.
He sent the message and instantly panicked, wishing he could take it back. He awaited a visit from Chris Hansen, but instead he got another picture from McMickey89, headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed the same bare chest, re-angled to show more of her bare, taut stomach. Eric could just make out the hem of a pair of Justin Bieber pajama pants, riding low on her narrow hips. Eric felt a pang of guilt, remembering that he had brought his ten-year-old niece a pair of those pants for her birthday. Eric started a message.
Theericgosselin:
Sweetheart. You're someone's daughter. You should have more respect for yourself.
He nearly sent this message, but again he thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
That doesn't work either. Let's see what we're working with downstairs.
Another message came almost instantly, headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed her bared crouch, infested with tangles of strawberry blond hair. Eric grimaced at the sight of it.
Theericgosselin:
You need to shave that and I mean now. I'll bet you $100.00 that all the pretty girls at your school are bald down there.
Another message came twenty minutes later, again headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed the girl's newly shaven pussy, lightly dampened and angled directly at the camera.
Theericgosselin:
That's better. I should check out your bung-hole. Just to be sure, of course.
Another message arrived in his inbox ten minutes later. By this time, Jon was banging on his own bedroom door, shouting for Eric to open the door.
"It's my house! I'll call the cops!"
McMickey89's new photo was of her straddling the camera, showing her tight, little ass. Her hands were gripping her cheeks, spreading them apart to reveal a tiny, brown circle.
Theericgosselin:
We'll talk about anal bleaching, but first let's try some things.
Eric had her dress in costumes and had her dribble random food items across her breasts. He had her shove her fist up into her vagina and up into her asshole. He had her shove her fist in her mouth and pour dog food across her feet. He had her dress up as a Nazi and a naughty nurse and a regular nurse and a doctor. He had her pack her poop-shot with silverware and her baby-maker with Skittles. He had her take a series of pictures with eggs up her assholes. Cadberry eggs, white shelled eggs, brown shelled eggs, one of those huge, fair-trade, organic eggs. She managed to get each and ever one of them up there without a single crack.
Theericgosselin:
Let's see how far you can get a broomstick up your ass.
The door rattled in its frame as Jon slammed himself into the door, trying to regain access to his own room. Another message arrived in Eric's inbox with the familiar legend: is this ok. This new one was of McMickey89 with a broom handle sticking out of her mouth, Blood and guts were splattered across her lips and cheeks. It was dribbling down her chest and down toward her pussy. She had shoved the broomstick straight through herself and Eric was sure she was dead by now. A cold sweat trickled across the nape of his neck. The door slammed open, bashing into the wall and then falling off the hinges.
"Christ!" Jon cried, his eyes jutting wildly around his bedroom. " There's jizz everywhere!"
The End
www.facebook.com/pages/Stranger-Fan-Fiction/253227181401492
"We're not on air. Why are you saying my full name with twitter handle?" Eli asked.
"Whatever, man. Have a good one." Eric said, firmly putting his boot in Eli's ass and kicking him out the door. Eli flew, sprawling, out onto the front walk, skinning his hands and face. Eric slammed the door shut and then hurried past Jon.
"Hey, man. What's up?" Jon asked as Eric disappeared into Jon's bedroom.
"You okay, man?" Jon called, knocking on his own bedroom. The lock on the door snapped shut and Eric was off in his own world.
Eric ripped open his laptop and logged on to http://www.chokethatjap-jew.com/, Eric's favorite strangulation porn site. Eric ripped his pants off, not bothering with his belt and actually breaking it as his pants fell. Before long, he was off to the races, stroking like a manic. Sweat rolled down his temples and his face turned beet-red. Blood spurted from his nostrils. Little, red veins bulged and burst in his eyes and finally, he exploded with cum. Cum splashed against Jon's walls and bedspread. Semen washed over Eric's inner thighs and calves. Jism splatted onto his chest and beneath his chin.
The only way I can avoid seeing everyone I love die is to die first. Eric thought and a single tear rolled down his eyes. Such morbid thoughts were common after he popped. His hands were slick with spunk and sweat and he wiped them on Jon's comforter. With that important business done, Eric logged onto Twitter. After retweeting a few times, Eric noticed that he had a private message. He checked out the handle, @McMickey89. The name was vaguely familiar so he went on to read the message.
McMickey89:
is this ok
The lack of punctuation was familiar as well. The cosmo girl. Jon and Eric did a segment where they gave advice to stupid, teenage girls. McMickey89 was one of those girls. He had recommended that she send him pics of her breasts. Beneath the three-word message, there was a link to a jpeg. Eric clicked on the link and saw teenage breasts. He saw a bare, lightly tanned torso with a scatter of freckles across the right breast. Her breasts were the size of plums with tiny, pink nipples. Eric gasped and began to type a reply.
Theericgosselin:
Christ! I could be registered as a sex offender just for looking at this. You can't send grown men pictures of your boobs.
He was about to hit reply, but then thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
Take another one from a different angle. Your tits look lopsided in this one.
He sent the message and instantly panicked, wishing he could take it back. He awaited a visit from Chris Hansen, but instead he got another picture from McMickey89, headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed the same bare chest, re-angled to show more of her bare, taut stomach. Eric could just make out the hem of a pair of Justin Bieber pajama pants, riding low on her narrow hips. Eric felt a pang of guilt, remembering that he had brought his ten-year-old niece a pair of those pants for her birthday. Eric started a message.
Theericgosselin:
Sweetheart. You're someone's daughter. You should have more respect for yourself.
He nearly sent this message, but again he thought better of it.
Theericgosselin:
That doesn't work either. Let's see what we're working with downstairs.
Another message came almost instantly, headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed her bared crouch, infested with tangles of strawberry blond hair. Eric grimaced at the sight of it.
Theericgosselin:
You need to shave that and I mean now. I'll bet you $100.00 that all the pretty girls at your school are bald down there.
Another message came twenty minutes later, again headed with the line: is this ok.
This new picture showed the girl's newly shaven pussy, lightly dampened and angled directly at the camera.
Theericgosselin:
That's better. I should check out your bung-hole. Just to be sure, of course.
Another message arrived in his inbox ten minutes later. By this time, Jon was banging on his own bedroom door, shouting for Eric to open the door.
"It's my house! I'll call the cops!"
McMickey89's new photo was of her straddling the camera, showing her tight, little ass. Her hands were gripping her cheeks, spreading them apart to reveal a tiny, brown circle.
Theericgosselin:
We'll talk about anal bleaching, but first let's try some things.
Eric had her dress in costumes and had her dribble random food items across her breasts. He had her shove her fist up into her vagina and up into her asshole. He had her shove her fist in her mouth and pour dog food across her feet. He had her dress up as a Nazi and a naughty nurse and a regular nurse and a doctor. He had her pack her poop-shot with silverware and her baby-maker with Skittles. He had her take a series of pictures with eggs up her assholes. Cadberry eggs, white shelled eggs, brown shelled eggs, one of those huge, fair-trade, organic eggs. She managed to get each and ever one of them up there without a single crack.
Theericgosselin:
Let's see how far you can get a broomstick up your ass.
The door rattled in its frame as Jon slammed himself into the door, trying to regain access to his own room. Another message arrived in Eric's inbox with the familiar legend: is this ok. This new one was of McMickey89 with a broom handle sticking out of her mouth, Blood and guts were splattered across her lips and cheeks. It was dribbling down her chest and down toward her pussy. She had shoved the broomstick straight through herself and Eric was sure she was dead by now. A cold sweat trickled across the nape of his neck. The door slammed open, bashing into the wall and then falling off the hinges.
"Christ!" Jon cried, his eyes jutting wildly around his bedroom. " There's jizz everywhere!"
The End
www.facebook.com/pages/Stranger-Fan-Fiction/253227181401492
Friday, May 25, 2012
How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies....
How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies
By Hurricane Amy
Rose Peters sauntered down a dimly lit hall, her wide, red-silk clad hips swaying like a rhythmic metronome. The hallway was lined on one side with a long window covered with dust and long wooden blinds. Blue and red police halos and the piss-yellow streetlight shot between the blinds and across Rose’s ample bosom. She stopped at the end of the hallway before a door reading: Cock Johnson, Private Investigator. She rapped sharply on the scuffed, wooden door.
“It’s open.” A groggy, sloppy man’s voice called. Rose turned the brass knob and entered into a small, cluttered office. A fat, balding man with a bushy mustache sat behind a large oak desk laden with over-clogged manila folders towering close to the ceiling. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and a halo of smoke around his head. Sitting prominently in the middle of the desk was a gallon bottle of rot-gut vodka.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson” Rose said, pulling up a cracked leather chair and seating herself on the opposite side of the desk.
“Ms. Peters.” Cock said, his eyes securely locked on her cleavage.
“We spoke over the phone. You claimed that there was a break in the case?”
“Yes. The Sandler Case. How he can keep making terrible movies and attract A-list actors.” Cock paused to drain a quarter of the rot-gut from the bottle. He smashed the bottle down on the table and choked down a little vomit. He then dug out a video camera and handed it to Rose.
“I hid in a Dumpster for nearly six hours to get this.” Cock said, pointing to the camera. Rose pressed the power button and the viewfinder winked into life, seeing the low angle of a parking garage. Tom Cruise stood alone in the midst of the gloomy, trash-littered garage. Rose had remembered reading in Variety that Cruise had recently signed on for Sandler’s newest project Fart Academy. Rose flicked an eye up to Cock and saw him draining the rest of the rot-gut. Rose pressed PLAY and Cruise began to pace back and forward with his hands on his hips. A black BMW pulled up alongside the Mission Impossible star and the back driver’s side door opened up. Adam Sandler stepped out from the BMW, wearing grubby looking clothes, and offered a hand to Cruise. Cruise declined to take it.
“You got me here, Sandler. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not going to do the movie.” Cruise said.
“I thought you might say that. Al Pa-pa-pacino had said the exact same thing.” Sandler said, adopting that stutter that people apparently found funny in Little Nicky, but was actually very stupid sounding. Sandler began to undo the belt to his ill-fitting 90’s jeans that he still wears for some reason. He pulled down on his zipper.
“Whoa. Whoa. What are you doing?” Cruise asked, wicking a droplet of semen away from his bottom lip. “I’ve stated clearly that I’m not gay. Even if I were, I could do a lot better than you, Sandler.”
“I ju-ju-ju-just wanna show you something.” Adam Sandler said, dropping his pants and boxers around his ankles.
“I’m getting out of here. I knew this was a waste of my time.” Cruise said, glancing at Adam Sandler’s baby penis. Tom Cruise started to leave. Sandler turned quickly and spread his ass cheeks apart. Cruise stopped in his tracks, transfixed by a golden glow like sunbeams gently kissing the dewdrops on the pedal of a sunflower. Cruise fell to his knees and his eyes widened like awe-struck lanterns. He reached a tentative hand out toward the wondrous glow as if he were reaching a hand out towards the Creator at the center of everything.
“No. No. No. You can’t touch until you agree to be in my movie.” Sandler said.
“I need to eat your asshole out.” Cruise said as salty tears welled in his eyes. His jaw began to tremble. He looked as though all the beauty in all the world had been set before him and his single heart couldn’t quite bear it. A child being born. A golden sunrise. The smiling face of Tom’s secret lover, Jeremy.
“Spade!” Sandler called and the driver’s door opened. David Spade stepped out, holding a briefcase.
“Please. I’ll do anything. Just let me toss your salad.” Cruise said.
“Sign on to Fart Academy.” Sandler said.
“Yes.” Cruise said and with that, David Spade handed Cruise a contract and a pen. Cruise scribbled his name down on the contract’s signature line and then walked on his knees toward Sandler’s opened, waiting ass cheeks. Spade placed a hand on Cruise’s shoulder, stopping him for a moment. David Spade then produced a jar of Strawberry jelly. He handed the jelly to Cruise.
“Have a ball, Chief.” Spade said and then he picked up the contract and returned to the BMW, leaving the door open so he could watch.
“Thank you.” Cruise said. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he unscrewed the top of the Strawberry jelly and dipped a hand in. David Spade reached into the passenger seat and picked up an egg salad sandwich. He unwrapped it.
“Yeah-Yeah. Let’s get the show started.” He said and started eating the egg salad sandwich with his mouth wide open, gobs of egg rolling from his mouth and onto his shirt.
Tom Cruise slathered the Strawberry jelly in between Adam Sandler’s hairy ass cheeks, applying it methodically like a mason spreading mortar on a brick. With Sandler’s ass thoroughly swathed in dripping, red jelly, Cruise pressed his face inside and went at it like a fat, slightly suicidal man might go at an opened can of spaghetti without a utensil. Cruise dove in like a lion tearing into a zebra, like a man eating a particularly delicious peach and he slobbered like a dog with a bone. Tom Cruise was digging his fingers up in there like an old lady searching for two pennies at the head of a long check-out line.
“Oh-God! It tastes like stars!” Tom Cruise said, parting his mouth from Adam’s puckering asshole. He dove back in, rooting in there like a gerbil up a weirdo’s bung-piece. He licked up and down the asshole like a kid licking an oversized lollypop or a chocolate ice cream cone.
It continued in that fashion for sometime, but Rose pressed PAUSE on the video camera.
“How long does this go on for?” Rose asked.
“Another forty-five minutes.” Cock said, opening up another bottle of rot-gut.
“Is it just him eating out his asshole like piranhas eating a big breasted spring break slut?” Rose asked.
“Spade starts jacking it and he opens up another egg salad sandwich.” Cock said, vomit gurgling in the bottom of his throat. He drank deep from the new rot-gut bottle, sucking it down like Tom Cruise was sucking Strawberry jelly out of Adam Sandler’s asshole. The rot-gut was soon emptied and Cock tossed the bottle against the wall. “I want some fucking tacos.”
“So, he has a glowing, hypnotic asshole?” Rose asked. Cock reached underneath his desk and produced a five-liter canister of gasoline.
“Bingo. Production. Financing. Casting. There isn’t a single step in the movie-making process that he doesn’t use his magic asshole for.” He lifted the canister up and began sloshing it into his mouth. “You have large breasts.” Cock said. They both stood up and began tap dancing and then sang:
And That’s How Adam Sandler Keeps Making Movies!
The End
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Garfield Erotic Fan Fiction
Why Garfield Hates Mondays
By Hurricane Amy
Jon Arbuckle sat in the dark, burning his chest with a cigarette while fondling his genitals through his thin, cotton under shorts. His teeth were gritted and his jaw was tensed. His eyes were laced with tiny, red veins and his face was slicked with sweat. He’d been up for days, stewing over a quip Garfield had said after he’d stubbed his toe on a chair.
“It’s not that bad, Jon. It’s not like it happened to me.” Garfield had said. He pulled his hard cock out from the slit in his under shorts and dragged his fingernails along the helmet. He shuttered hotly and then let up. He couldn’t cum yet. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was going to fuck that fat pussy. Never mind that fat pussy was covered in orange fur matted with clotted cheese and tomato sauce. Never mind that fat pussy’s moans of surprise would sound exactly like Bill Murray. Jon was going to fuck that pussy. Garfield had been freeloading off of Jon for years, endlessly eating pan after pan of lasagna, knocking Odie off the counter top and mocking Jon’s sense of style.
“It’s not like it happened to me.” Jon said aloud in a mock Garfield voice. He stroked his dick once and it pulsed expectantly. Tonight, Garfield would know who was the owner and who was the pet. Jon saw it all in his mind. He’d spread that fat pussy’s fat ass cheeks and he’d fuck the cheese clods out of his poop-shoot and to pour salt into the wound, he’d have a pan of lasagna waiting in the oven. While spunk dribbled from Garfield’s flabby asshole, Jon would eat it, right in his face.
Jon burned himself again with the cigarette, this time just above his navel. A smile cracked across his face and laughter began to bubble up from his belly.
“Happy Monday, Garfield.”
By Hurricane Amy
Jon Arbuckle sat in the dark, burning his chest with a cigarette while fondling his genitals through his thin, cotton under shorts. His teeth were gritted and his jaw was tensed. His eyes were laced with tiny, red veins and his face was slicked with sweat. He’d been up for days, stewing over a quip Garfield had said after he’d stubbed his toe on a chair.
“It’s not that bad, Jon. It’s not like it happened to me.” Garfield had said. He pulled his hard cock out from the slit in his under shorts and dragged his fingernails along the helmet. He shuttered hotly and then let up. He couldn’t cum yet. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was going to fuck that fat pussy. Never mind that fat pussy was covered in orange fur matted with clotted cheese and tomato sauce. Never mind that fat pussy’s moans of surprise would sound exactly like Bill Murray. Jon was going to fuck that pussy. Garfield had been freeloading off of Jon for years, endlessly eating pan after pan of lasagna, knocking Odie off the counter top and mocking Jon’s sense of style.
“It’s not like it happened to me.” Jon said aloud in a mock Garfield voice. He stroked his dick once and it pulsed expectantly. Tonight, Garfield would know who was the owner and who was the pet. Jon saw it all in his mind. He’d spread that fat pussy’s fat ass cheeks and he’d fuck the cheese clods out of his poop-shoot and to pour salt into the wound, he’d have a pan of lasagna waiting in the oven. While spunk dribbled from Garfield’s flabby asshole, Jon would eat it, right in his face.
Jon burned himself again with the cigarette, this time just above his navel. A smile cracked across his face and laughter began to bubble up from his belly.
“Happy Monday, Garfield.”
Flag Ship Post! You Might Have Made A Mistake Coming Here!
Hey!
I'm Hurricane Amy and among many things, I'm a gross. I'm here to make you gag, heave and/or turn green with disgust. What better way of doing this than by taking things you love and making them do horrible things to each other. I'll be giving you a prime example of the twisted thoughts coming from my mind in the days, weeks, months and possibly years to come. I'm excited! I hope you are too!
I'm Hurricane Amy and among many things, I'm a gross. I'm here to make you gag, heave and/or turn green with disgust. What better way of doing this than by taking things you love and making them do horrible things to each other. I'll be giving you a prime example of the twisted thoughts coming from my mind in the days, weeks, months and possibly years to come. I'm excited! I hope you are too!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)